


Getting That Affectionate

by gloss



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Anal Sex, Comeplay, Finn inna dress, Id Fic, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, cheerful & enthusiastic filth, finn & poe love each other a lot, weird sci-fi stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 08:11:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12008631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: "Keep doing that," Finn says as Poe sways back against him, then presses closer yet, his hips ticking back and forth, "and this party's about to get 100% more fun."Finn and Poe are on a weird ship for diplomatic reasons. They make the most of the time they get together. Porn, that's what this is.





	Getting That Affectionate

**Author's Note:**

> This is for whoever that beautiful woman was who danced up against Boyega at Carnival; without her, and the footage thereof, this wouldn't exist.
> 
> Huge thanks to GP, orchis, morethananything, & hegemony for inspiration, love, and reassurance.
> 
> Title from LL Cool J, "Doin' It".

It isn't until after the second banquet, when the floor is cleared for dancing, that Finn and Poe finally get to _talk_ again. 

"Been too long," Finn'll say and Poe's going to grin, agreeably, pointing to acknowledge the joke.

It has been too long and no time at all, that's the thing. As separations go, this one doesn't even really get to count. It's simply a long and busy day. From breakfast on, Finn leads a workshop on approaches to reconciliation while Poe is in negotiations for regulations on hyperlane access; then they narrowly miss each other before dinner. At the first meal, they are seated at nearly opposite corners of the hall. Try as he might, all Poe can make out is half of the back of Finn's neck and the slight ruching of his gown over his shoulder. (He looks good, though, _very_ good.) The intervening cocktail phase is far too crowded to move, let alone find each other. Poe makes a valiant bid to sit next to Finn at the second meal, only to be intercepted a mere three paces from his target by a very handsy Republican avionics theorist.

Now, finally, the hall is dimmed. Bioluminous tendrils drop from overhead, unfurling as they float. Eccentric, highly localized gravity fields -- one of the Eubians' best-known customs -- surface out of the standardized field that had obtained all the way through both meals. Islands of weightlessness abut shoals of nearly immobilizing density.

One of the heavier fields catches Finn and Poe, tossing them together into a crouch. They hold onto each other as the field spins lazily; soon enough it will deposit them in another field.

"Having a good time?" Finn asks as they spin.

Poe nods and tosses the hair off his forehead. "Getting better and better."

There is no apparent logic to how the individual fields coexist; they are scales off a dragon's back tiled over the creaky heart of a star, wrapped up in twine. Now Poe and Finn are floating slightly, toes scraping the floor. Poe twists in Finn's embrace until they're back to front, facing the same direction. He reaches back, grasping the full fall of Finn's skirts for mooring as they sway under the eerie tracery of lights, through the gusts of sound, around the gravitational enclaves.

The war isn't over. They are here on the Eubian capital shop for diplomatic proceedings dedicated to bringing a portion of the Republic officially onside. The Resistance is nowhere near done, they've done very little, there's nothing to celebrate. And yet here they are, well-fed and liquored-up (at least Poe is), dancing with all the others who haven't done a damn thing. 

The apparatus of diplomacy isn't anything like the war it is ostensibly committed to resolving. The one is a mass of moments of shattering terror and sudden death, while the other seems permanent, self-sustaining, ever-secure. Death is unique only to the particular soul winking out; for a technocrat, there will always be another war.

"Keep doing that," Finn says as Poe sways back against him, then presses closer yet, his hips ticking back and forth, "and this party's about to get 100% more fun."

They rotate into another field and pull apart, linked only by Poe's left hand in Finn's skirts. Poe drags himself closer, asking, face alight with sweat, "Is that a promise?"

"More like a threat, honestly," Finn replies, glancing ruefully down at his crotch.

"My kind of threat," Poe says, collapsing against Finn's chest and sliding one knee between Finn's legs. He grins even more widely. "Hey, threaten me some more?"

"Okay, it was really more of a _warning_ ," Finn says.

Scowling, Poe fakes a punch to Finn's shoulder. "I like threats better."

"You do not!"

"From you, I do."

Finn rises suddenly as he hits a low-G bubble; he tips forward toward Poe, his skirts billowing. Poe is left eye-level with Finn's waist. Reaching up to take hold of Finn Poe smacks his lips, his brow jumping in invitation.

"Suite," Finn says.

Understanding, quickly followed by agreement, fills up the space between them. 

"Way ahead of you," Poe says, yanking hard on Finn's hand to drag him out of the bubble, all the way to the nearest exit and from there to the elevator.

"Grabby as a Eubian" is a saying across the galaxy for someone who can't help their acquisitiveness. Originally a scavenger culture, when Eubos went to space, it continued its tradition of taking whatever it could and pasting-plastering- _jamming_ it into existing structures.

A Eubian caravan is a great shuffling millipede of older vehicles; their spaceports, too, are cluttered mazes of all the technology that caught the residents' eyes, whether useful or not.

It is only reasonable, then, that a Eubian capital ship is a salmagundi of smaller shuttles, fighters, and even artificial satellites and abandoned mining probes.

The gravity generator of most ships this size is at the center of the structure and the rest of the ship rotates around it. Because the Eubians, however, prefer local grav fields, their ship is less a torus and more a jumbled, ad-hoc collection of spinning plates. To move from one zone to the next, you hop a grav barrier, get that hiccup of free float, then land (heavily or feather-lightly) in the next.

"Wheeee!" From a crouch, Poe jumps from the elevator to the hallway zone, then bounces like a frog down the passage to the door to their suite. "Finn, man, this is my favorite ship EVER!"

"You've mentioned that," Finn replies, gathering his skirts in one hand so he can step out of the elevator without tripping. "About a hundred times."

"Because it is! It's the best!"

"Better than an X-Wing?" Finn follows at a slower, more careful pace. "What about an A-Wing interceptor?"

"Way better!" Poe calls, lifting up into the air and turning in a messy somersault. His hair hangs down toward the hall carpet, which is embroidered and patched and visibly mended in about sixteen different colors and techniques. "So much better!"

"Okay," Finn says, laughing as he reaches to tug Poe out of the float and into the suite. Poe bobs after him like a particularly rowdy party bladder-balloon. The gravity in their suite is far more predictable. Falling, Poe thuds against the wall, while Finn stretches out his neck, then releases his skirts. "You all right?"

"I'm great," Poe says stubbornly, pushing himself up first onto all fours, then rising unsteadily to his feet. His face is flushed, his hair damp and loose across his forehead. "Better than great. I love this place."

Finn sighs. "Nothing fits together! Nothing's planned, nothing _works_ like it should."

"I know! It's _awesome_!" Poe bounces across the floor and flings himself across their bunk. The floor, the walls, the ceiling -- everything onboard the ship is tiled in a crazy-quilt of mirror shards and bright chips of durasteel in every possible shade. Ten thousand miniature Poes, in fragments and from impossible angles, follow the original's progress. "I agree with you. You're so right. Man, Finn, how are you so smart?"

"Wasn't praising it," Finn grumbles.

"I know, but I love it, so I'm going to pretend you're not being a jerk about what is, objectively and truly, the number-one coolest ship ever."

"This place gives me a headache." Back to Poe, Finn unclasps the tunic that he wears over his gown. Poe sits up on one elbow and whistles appreciatively. Finn glances over his shoulder, starting to smile; he twitches his hips so his skirts swirl and whisper.

"Me, too! A headache, I mean, I can't seem to shake it. You look so handsome all dressed up like that. Do you think it's the entourage?"

"Bricolage," Finn says. He can't possibly address every subject Poe just flung at him, so he goes with the most recent. Nonetheless, he grins and smoothes the dress down his side. "Are you saying the _bricolage_ \--"

"That's what I said."

"That's so far from what you said, it might as well have been Binary." Finn leans against the wall and watches, fascinated, as Poe tips and tilts, trying to find his equilibrium as he tugs his dress jersey off over his head. "Need some help?"

"I got it," Poe says from somewhere inside the tangle. "I totally got it."

"You're so drunk," Finn says, leaning over to pull off one boot, then the other. He steps on the hem of his dress and stumbles a little. Poe, luckily, can't see a thing; if he could, Finn would make a bigger deal out of next slipping off his underwear. It's tight, far too small ever since they started dancing.

"Not _that_ drunk," Poe protests. His head now appears to be stuck inside one sleeve. His arm might still be in there as well, but it's hard to tell. "Just kind of happily disoriented on account of the trick--the treacle--the--"

"Bricolage." Their briefings warned them, in no uncertain terms, about the effects of the Eubian zeal for agglomeration and incompatible grav fields. Finn remembers that, but he's almost 100% certain that Poe neglected to attend the briefings, even though they were rescheduled at least three times. If, somehow, Poe _did_ attend, he definitely didn't listen that closely. "It's bricolage."

"Yeah, that, too." Poe twists and stretches, but fails to make any progress freeing himself from the jersey. Finally, slumping, his bare stomach folding, he asks softly, "hey, Finn?"

"Yeah?"

"Little help here, maybe?"

"But you look good like this," Finn says, coming closer. The tiles on the floor are cool against his bare feet.

Poe stops squirming. "Really?"

"Yeah," Finn says. "All bundled up. Restrained. If only it muffled you a little more--"

Poe's posture loosens and he tosses himself back, rolling away from Finn. "You're such an asshole."

Finn drops down on one knee and grabs for Poe's waist, dragging him back. "Am I?"

"No," Poe admits. "Kind of. Sometimes?"

"Yeah?" He runs both his hands up Poe's chest, just this side of tickling-light.

"I like it, though!" Poe wriggles toward Finn's touch. "Just to clarify."

"That's good," Finn says, laughter thickening his voice. He pushes his fingertips up under the bottom of Poe's shirt and brushes his thumbs back and forth across Poe's nipples. "I'd hate to think I've been misinterpreting you all this time."

"No misinterpretation," Poe says, suddenly hoarse, arching for more touch.

"And I'd worry, you know, that you do these kind of things with someone you actually think is an asshole...."

"Do what kind of things?"

"These things." Finn presses his mouth to Poe's chest, rasping his thumbnails now against Poe's nipples, and scrapes his teeth down to the hollow, tender triangle where Poe's ribs arch together. "And also these." He pulls Poe up, fast, mouth finding one nipple while Poe flops over him; Finn wraps his arms around Poe's waist and shoves his hands down the back of his trousers. "Definitely these."

"These kind of things," Poe says, trying to get closer, "are my favorite."

"Lotta favorites tonight, huh?"

"Ship! Boyfriend! Sex with boyfriend, if I'm not mistaken! And I don't think I am! All the good shit!" Poe lifts his bundled head and arms up. "Can you help me out of this, though? My arms hurt and also I want to see you maybe?"

"Should I just cut it off?"

Inside the shirt, Poe gasps. "The costume department would have my head!"

The mission outfitters is one part-time Wookiee who's even more enthusiastic about dress-up than Poe. 

"Okay," Finn says, "good point. That could be literal."

"It is! Masha is very strong! Even for her species, you should see how she can tear a whole bolt of taffeta like--"

"Poe."

"Yes?"

"Hold still."

"I am."

"For you, maybe, but pretend you're a regular person. No, pretend you're a rock. That still."

Poe hunches over and, drawing a knee up, also juts one shoulder out, apparently in imitation of the ideal boulder in his mind.

It's easy enough, since Finn didn't drink anything at either banquet tonight, to get Poe out of the jersey. He unfastens the central strip and tugs it free of one sleeve. Poe's head pops into sight, face darkly flushed now, his eyes a little unfocused for a moment as he blinks against the light. 

Looking around, he smacks his lips and works his jaw.

"Hey," Finn says.

"Hey, buddy," Poe replies. "I'd hug you but my arms are asleep." He tries to lift one hand to demonstrate and, grimacing, lets it drop back to the bunk. "Fuck."

"Lie down, then." Finn nudges him back.

Poe narrows his eyes, evaluating the proposal. He pushes back against the touch, as if still pretending to be a (talking, sapient) rock. "Why?"

Finn _looks_ unfazed. He _looks_ magnificent, like artwork and bardic odes and all that kind of thing, strong broad shoulders and handsome face and flowing, filmy robes that expose his body and cling to it in equal measure.

"Because," Finn says at last, and his mouth is slanting up but his voice is soft, suddenly shy, "I wanted to fuck you."

"Oh! Oh, awesome! Go for it!" Poe collapses, tries to squirm out of his trousers, but succeeds only in further messing up the coverlet. "Need to get these off--"

His hands are useless, prickly and tingly and weighing about a ton each. 

"Here," Finn says. He sounds somehow patient and amused and fondly exasperated all at the same time. One-handed, he tugs on Poe's trousers, unfastening them and yanking them down his thighs.

Poe stares at his suddenly naked midsection. "You're so strong, _whoa_."

"It's a pair of trousers," Finn reminds him. "Not a bolt of taffeta or shipping crate of spice."

Poe props himself up on one elbow, pulling up the opposite knee and wriggling to work the trousers further down. "Yeah, but. Impressive. That's all I'm saying."

Finn kisses him then, long and deep, and Poe murmurs into his mouth, flinging one dead-weight arm across Finn's back. The silky fabric of Finn's robes catches and snags under Poe's hand.

"Leave this on?" Poe whispers when Finn breaks to breathe, sighing as he rests his cheek against Poe's shoulder. 

"You like the dress, huh?"

Poe nods enthusiastically enough that his chin bounces, again and again, off Finn's forehead. "Like? Love, more like. Crave! Carnally but also aesthetically, you see, because--"

"I got it." Finn slips his arm around Poe's waist and squeezes. He doesn't move for several long moments, content to simply hold and breathe and bask. "Thank you."

"The thanks are all mine," Poe tells him, slipping downward so he can kiss Finn again. After another silent stretch, he pokes Finn square in the chest, right at the ornate clasp below the dress's plunging neckline. "Um, you were saying something about fucking me?"

Poe's face is screwed up, like he just tasted an unripe goldfruit or got a summons from Statura. His expression lightens and smoothes out, however, as Finn, chuckling, pulls away to sit up straight. "Oh, are you still into that?"

"Very into that," Poe says. "As you can see, should you like to check, down here in the environs of New Yavin..."

A lot of people name their genitals. Poe's the only person Finn has met, or will ever meet, who has also named the general region -- the fun zone, he's also been known to call it, or amusement central. _"Because it's around a **giant** , get it? A red-hot giant!"_

Not only near a giant, Finn pointed out early on, but also the site of heroic deeds. He'd never seen Poe _beam_ like he did in response to that remark.

"How _is_ the main attraction doing?" Finn asks now, cupping Poe's dick and grinning.

"Big and throbbing and, I have to say, ready for some real action," Poe replies. "Did I mention throbbing?" Finn tightens his grasp and twists his wrist a little, dragging the fabric of Poe's briefs around and up his shaft. "Fuck. What's better than throbbing?"

"Aching?" Finn suggests. "Hammering? Pounding."

"Yeah, yeah, all of those." Poe's back on both elbows now, trousers inside out and hanging off one calf, his briefs hiked up and twisted. He thrusts against Finn's palm. "All of those, all at once, but also still throbbing."

"A miracle of nature," Finn says lightly, then stands up, tugging down Poe's briefs as he moves back.

"So much throbbing!"

Finn licks his lips, taking in the sight below him. His head swims, heat flashes and catches across his body, and neither has anything to do with the gravity.

"Yearning!" Poe kicks his heels against the bunk. "That's what it is! But also still throbbing."

"So, throbbing," Finn says. "I'm getting a sense of that throbs are being experienced."

"And how, man. AND HOW." Poe rolls his hips, his dick standing up thick and dark from the hair. "Check it."

"Nice," Finn says. He cocks his head. "Maybe, I dunno, I'd like a taste?" His own cock twitches at the question and he has to rake in a breath. Poe's pre-cum, glimmering on the head of his cock, is reflected all around them, and Finn gets dizzy for a second, imagining the taste of that many drops, flooding his palate, filling his throat.

"You could, yeah," Poe says, voice gone rough. "But maybe we could skip to the..." He trails off, mouth open, eyes hooded.

After a moment or two, Finn touches Poe's knee. "Skip to the what?"

Poe groans as he lets his head fall back. "You're killing me."

"Am I?" Finn kneels on the edge of the bunk and jacks Poe softly, two-three times, until goosebumps are sprayed up Poe's chest and down his legs and his ribs are rising and falling, stuttering.

"Assassination by blow job," Poe groans, pushing up into Finn's hand, searching blindly for his mouth, "it's gonna happen, and it's gonna be--"

Finn kisses him then and squeezes the base of his shaft. "Who said anything about a blow job?"

Poe frowns. "I'm dreaming big here!"

"This is your big dream?" Finn asks, tracing a vein around Poe's cock with one fingertip and darting kisses over Poe's face until Poe is shivering nonstop. "A blow job."

"A blow job _from you_ ," Poe corrects him, "which will kill me, but that is fine, because I am never happier than when one of us has the other's dick down their throat. Therefore I will die happy."

"Ah, I see," Finn says, pushing his hand through Poe's hair and pulling him into another, deeper kiss. He moves them around, confidently and gracefully, and adds, mouth hovering just over Poe's cockhead, "let's make you happy, then."

"I'm already hap--" Poe starts, then gulps, as his torso undulates and he thrusts into Finn's mouth.

Finn is never less than superb at any task he tackles, of course, but Poe would argue (and has, fervently, at least a few times) that he truly excels at lovemaking. Finn has threatened to stop, however, should Poe ever implement his plan to call this 'sexcelling'.

That doesn't stop Poe from thinking it, however. Sexcellence is when Finn's grace and bravery join his amazing body and his heart's determination to make the world a better place. In this case, Poe represents the world and his orgasm, the improvement. Something like that. The point is, Poe knows that he's very, very lucky to be the recipient of so much of Finn's sexcellence.

He loses track of the logic, such as it is, because Finn is _just that good_ , generous and attentive and so fucking _thirsty_ for it. He's making all theses slurping murmurs, appreciative and enthusiastic. Poe can't help but answer them with whimpers and curses. These accelerate and sharpen when Finn strokes two lubed fingers around Poe's hole before working the tips inside.

"Hey, you know what?" Finn asks a little later, breaking for breath. His mouth is both soaked and a little numb.

"What?" Poe's throat hurts and he sounds like he's transmitting over an insecure backchannel from half the galaxy away.

"You taste good."

"Yeah?"

"Hell, yeah. So good."

Poe pushes up onto an elbow and peers down at Finn. "How good?"

Laughing helplessly, Finn presses his face against Poe's leg. He can't speak for a minute or so; Poe plays with Finn's hair, tightening and tugging on one twist, then another.

When Finn finally looks back up, Poe shrugs. "Was that funny?"

"You're funny," Finn tells him, before wrapping his lips around Poe's cockhead again and pushing all the way down. He thrusts his fingers shallowly and Poe shrieks, limbs flung out, head falling back against the bulkhead with a thump.

"Fuck," Poe says, bearing down on Finn's hand and opening his legs all the wider. Then, softer than anything, " _please_."

The heat gathering under Finn's skin flares and doubles at that. "Turn over."

"But--" Poe lifts his head, looking shocked and a little hurt. "I wanna see you!"

"Sentimental old weirdo," Finn says and Poe scowls momentarily. "Look around. You can see about a million of me."

Poe's eyes widen. "Oh, _damn_."

"Yeah," Finn says, helping Poe turn over, dragging him by his knees closer to the edge. "How about that?"

"Told you this ship was the coolest!"

"Maybe I was hasty," Finn admits. He keeps one hand on the swell of Poe's ass while he rifles in the tangle of covers for the lubricant. "Maybe I shouldn't have judged."

"That's right!" Poe has his head turned, cheek pressed into the bunk, and he pushes his ass into Finn's touch. "This place is the best and I _knew_ you'd have to see that sooner or later. I'm glad it was sooner, not later, because I can be pretty impatient, right, so-- FUCK DO THAT AGAIN."

"This?" Finn asks, running his lube-slick knuckles down Poe's crack, over his hole, all the way to the underside of his balls. 

"That!"

"But I want to slick you up some more," Finn says, fighting to keep his tone reasonable, "I want to get your hole stretched and ready."

"Fuck, Finn, that, too!"

"Greedy."

"Greedy and sentimental, yeah, yeah," Poe mutters, his hips rolling now like he's already getting fucked, like he's filled right up and riding the bliss. The sight is filthy, so filthy and hungry for more, but sweet, too, pure enthusiastic welcome and joy. When Finn pushes two fingers in, Poe's breath wheezes out and he moans, but his hips keep working.

"Work back against me," Finn says after a bit, withdrawing his fingers. Poe lifts his ass, offering himself, and rubs against Finn, grunting every time he makes contact. "Faster."

"Please, fuck--"

"Faster," Finn says, "just for a second, please--"

He doesn't have to finish. Poe rubs faster, in rough ovals, back and forth and then up and down, so Finn's robes lift and bunch until finally Finn hikes them up out of the way and Poe rubs right against Finn's dick. His grunts are higher now, almost whinnying, and there are thousands of Finns, thousands of Poes, surrounding them, rubbing and offering and begging for more.

Finn extends one arm, grabbing at Poe's shoulder to brace himself, and grinds forward. Poe gasps and arches, and then again when, with his free hand, Finn guides his dick inside. Halfway at first, and then Poe gulps and shivers and pushes back and up until Finn's all the way inside.

"Faster," Poe is the one to say now, mouth moving against Finn's hand on his shoulder. He drops and raises his hips and thrusts against the bunk. "Fuck me, _harder_."

Finn's laughter catches in the center of his chest and instead he's grunting, watching the impossible curves of Poe's back, the flare of his hips and spread of his ass. Watching the originals, then glimpsing the endless fragments of detail glittering around them. He digs his fingernails into Poe, feels the joint roll in his grip, and fucks deep and slow, chasing more pleasure, the heat of it enveloping him, lifting him from the floor, making him dizzy and hungrier yet.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Poe chants, the coverlet and Finn's hand wet with his drool. He's turned inside as surely as a trouser leg, formed around the pressure of Finn's cock, wrapping himself with everything he is around Finn. "Come on, come on--"

"Is this a pep talk?" Finn asks, and now he does laugh, happiness breaking out all over him like sweat, stinging and rejoicing and _shining_. "You're so supportive."

"You're the best," Poe says, grinning at the reflections, like they're all Finn, so many amazing men, all of them fucking Poe, like he's worth it, like he's someone to them, like he's more than a good pilot and occasional spy and useful pawn. Like he's bigger than what he brings to the fight, like he's--. "Finn, _fuck_."

Finn releases Poe's shoulder and worms his hand under Poe to grasp his dick. "Are you going to come?"

"Yeah, I--" Poe says, voice cracking like it's a confession, at long last wrung from him. 

Finn rakes his fingertips down Poe's spine, leaving paler trails through the sheen of sweat and over his flushed skin. Poe's ribs expand, his waist twists, he shoves back hard. Finn holds on, pushes back. He's flying in place and free-falling and floating high, all at once. He goes up on tiptoe to sharpen the angle and thrusts faster.

" _Finn_ ," Poe says. Just his name, just a word. A syllable, meaningless until Poe offered it all those months back and Finn accepted it. They did something together in that escape -- took who Finn already was and made him known, speakable.

"Turn over?" It is a question, not an order; teasing play is over and they're both ground up to literalism and honesty. Groaning, Poe tries; Finn pulls out, wincing, and helps Poe. A hairy, scarred knee and flailing arm intervene, and then there's just Poe, the original and life-sized, mottled and sweaty, hair loose, smile wide, as he reaches for Finn. He kisses Finn eagerly, sticky and deep, as he's shifting around, lifting his hips, wrapping a leg up around Finn's hip.

"I'm so close," Poe whispers, another kind of confession entirely. Finn nods, out of breath, out of words, desperate to stay right here, buried inside Poe and caught in this moment that spirals open and keeps on brightening.

He pushes deeper, grunting and leaning a little ways back so he can watch. Watch Poe come, feel it from the inside as accelerating, torquing pressure, see his dick jerk and jump in his hand.

"More," one of them says and the other agrees. They've always worked well together, always agreed about what matters.

Poe offers his dripping fingers; Finn sucks them clean, biting down to keep them in place when Poe tries to drop his hand. Fingertips curved over teeth, pushing against Finn's tongue, knuckles stretching his mouth: Poe fucks his mouth as Finn shudders and drops his hips, and comes in a series of long, gasping pushes.

When Finn falls, first onto his elbows, then fully atop Poe, sweat seals shut his eyes, air abrades his mouth. Poe wraps himself around Finn, kisses his neck, as they roll over onto their sides.

The hunger that Poe makes him feel -- Poe somehow reveals a howling, shrieking emptiness within him _and_ inspires the need to fill and be filled, to crawl close then closer, to have and to hold -- is something that Finn can't wrap his mind around. This hunger's not of the mind; it's stronger even than all the emotions he feels about Poe (love, trust, worry, exasperation, admiration, back to love).

"After this is all over," Finn says carefully, measuring the sound with flicks of his tongue and purses of his lips, "we should get a Eubian barque, maybe a junk. Something small. Do ferries and long-haul cargo."

"After," Poe says, hushed. 

They've both spent the day discussing conditionals and hypothetical future states to work toward; they fight this war so tomorrow will be better than today. But they have always been careful to limit the scope of their own conversations and expectations.

_Isn't it enough we're together right now?_ Finn asked once, annoyed by someone teasing them about getting married and adopting a passel of babies, and Poe agreed, toasting him.

Not talking about the future is part superstition, part respect for the dead, part plain common sense. 

"I fly, you make the deals," Poe adds. He traces the inner curve of Finn's ear, down to the hinge of his jaw. His body still pulses with echoes and aftershocks, his skin a sack of random sensation, his hole sore and radiant.

"Yeah. Nothing fancy," Finn says and pulls Poe's arm more tightly over him as he tucks his face into Poe's neck. "Just--"

"--enough for a living."


End file.
